


What Kind of Man?

by Boton



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Book 1: Outlander, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: He was as guilty as that monster Randall of dragging Claire into that dungeon, linking her forever with the events that happened there. What kind of a man does such a thing?(Welcome to my first Outlander fic!)Disclaimer: Outlander belongs to Diana Gabaldon, STARZ, and likely a whole bunch of people with a better legal team than I have. This fic is not for profit and is just for my (and your) entertainment.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	What Kind of Man?

**Author's Note:**

> “The monks had taken Jamie away to be bathed, a process in which I thought I had better not assist.”
> 
> Claire Fraser, Outlander
> 
> (AN: This takes place in the book-verse, in which the journey on the Cristabel comes before the Abbey, and not after as in the TV show.)

The monks carefully transported their bundle on a makeshift stretcher into the abbey. Although he had been skirting the edge of unconsciousness ever since they left the Cristabel, he groaned and occasionally even whimpered when the monks took a step that jiggled him slightly.

Just inside the doors, Brother Ambrose bid the other monks stop, and he checked on Jamie.

“Lad, we’re going to take you to the lavatorium and help you wash. You’ll feel better when you are clean.”

Jamie roused slightly and mumbled through his swollen lips. To Claire, it sounded like he said, “I’ll never be clean again.”

Assuming she was right about what she heard, she adopted her no-nonsense nurse tone. “Of course you will. We’ll make you much more comfortable, right away.”

That, apparently, was a mistake. Jamie muttered, “no, Sassenach, please,” while the monks looked at her judgmentally, if such a thing could be said of a monk’s expression.

“My child, you are spent,” Ambrose interjected smoothly. “Why don’t you make yourself more comfortable; the lavatorium is something of a sacred space for the brothers.”

Claire withdrew, concluding that her presence would be more of a distraction than her absence. With a feather-light careess of Jamie’s perspiration-soaked copper curls, she went.

***

Jamie sighed as the brothers placed his stretcher on the worn wooden benches opposite the large, trough-like basin in which the monks performed their ablutions. A novitiate had been tasked with heating water over the fire at the end of the chamber and filling the basin, warming the room somewhat and filling it with a light steam.

Ambrose knelt beside Jamie’s head. “You have nothing to to worry about here,” he said. “Just try to rest and let us help you.”

As Ambrose had been speaking, Jamie felt the the other monks delicately removing the plaid that covered him and gently freeing him from his clothing. One monk unwrapped the outer bandage wrapping his crushed hand, leaving the splint in place but readying to wash before the bandages were reapplied. The puncture wound had begun to bleed again, and the bandages were stained a dark red where the pierced flesh had slowly wept blood and fluid. Jamie’s entire body went rigid as the pain, just as acute as when the wound was made, jolted through his body.

The young monk gasped slightly, then carefully rearranged his features into a mask of compassion. 

“You bear a stigmatum,” he said in a low voice. “It should be of some comfort to you to know that Our Lord was also wounded by nail and whip.”

With that, Jamie wheezed a low rueful chuckle, the most he could stand with his splintered ribs. “I’ve one or two wounds I dearly hope Our Lord dinna suffer,” he said with an edge to his voice.

Ambrose had been preparing to wash away the blood, sweat, and other fluids that had dried in Jamie’s curls, but his head snapped up at that comment. He smoothly called the younger brother over to take his place at Jamie’s head, replacing him at Jamie’s side and washing the more intimate areas of Jamie’s body. 

“Let’s turn you to your stomach,” he said when he was finished with Jamie’s front. “You’ll surely be more comfortable with pressure off your back.”

Even with help, turning to his stomach was almost more than Jamie could stand, and he retched as the pain shot through him. Only the fact that his stomach was empty from seasickness on the journey over saved him from the embarrassment of vomiting. As it was, he tasted iron at the back of his throat and knew that he was choking on blood from his abused wame. 

What kind of a man became sick and lightheaded simply rolling over, he asked himself with growing disgust. His disgust was joined by deep shame as he felt Ambrose begin to gently wash his rear. He had bled; that much he knew. He could feel it during the travel on horseback, the bouncing and rubbing exacerbating the already-injured area. Ambrose made no comment, but Jamie kent the more worldly monk knew from the evidence about his dishonor, even if he didn’t know the specifics. What kind of a man allowed this sort of thing to happen, he berated himself.

Well. His body was just his body, insignificant in the face of protecting Claire. He had promised her the protection of his body if need be, and he could never regret that. What he could regret – what his greatest sin was – was his failure to protect her from the treachery of his own mind.

What kind of a man took shelter in thoughts of his wife when such things were happening? He was as guilty as that monster Randall of dragging Claire into that dungeon, linking her forever with the events that happened there. It was his fault her memory was defiled, and that was a sin he could never forgive himself of. He should have died, or gone mad, before he chose to hide behind her skirts and take refuge in the memory of her touch.

As the monks finished up rebandaging his wounds, Jamie felt blankets, warmed in a basket sitting by the fire, being drawn up around him. He grunted with pain as they lifted the makeshift stretcher board and took him down the passage to a waiting room, where Ambrose supervised Jamie’s transfer into a waiting bed. Positioned on his left side with his throbbing hand lying on a pillow and a bolster made of a blanket tucked securely behind his back to prevent him rolling, he felt himself disconnect from reality. His wounds pounded with each beat of his heart, making his entire body throb, and he felt himself still bobbing on the ocean, moving up and down with a nausea-inducing sinuous movement. He swallowed hard and felt Ambrose once again approach his head.

“It is late,” Ambrose said softly. “This will help you sleep, and tomorrow, you’ll begin to heal,” he said, helping Jamie lift his head to drink the laudanum. The opiate tasted bitter on his tongue, and it burned on the way down, but it started to take effect quickly. “I’ll never be whole again,” was Jamie’s last thought before he succumbed to the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's face it. Book 1 Claire never met a delicate situation she didn't think she belonged right in the middle of. So why was she suddenly OK with sending Jaime off to be bathed? This is my head canon, and my chance to insert a little H/C into the gap.


End file.
